Moriarty's Heart
by Dark Arts Rising
Summary: An unlucky fall in Switzerland, an unhappy woman in London and Sherlock caught in between. The most powerful witch of all times is hell-bent on avenging Jim's death by bringing him back to life with Sherlock's blood for a ritual sacrifice. T for language.
1. A witch's version of sabiishi

**Moriarty's Heart**

**A/N: **

**All right folks, here we are again, Dark Magical Sorcres and Merdealors, with another not-all-too-serious story from the Sherlock Universe. This time our detective stumbles across a most determined woman who will stop at nothing to bring James Moriarty back from the other world. Unfortunately, Sherlock has just gone at great lengths to bring James just there. But what chance does the younger Holmes have, with all his smartness, against a woman who is, be it said in all modesty, the most powerful witch that ever lived?**

**Follow us through a twisted labyrinth of deceit and counter deceit that tries Sherlock and his friends to their limits on a quest for the most precious prize of all – Moriarty's heart.**

**Dark Magical Sorcres is responsible for the plot, as the great Jacqueline is her creation. I, Merdealors, will humbly assist her in writing parts of it.**

**Let us know what you think.**

**1. A witch's version of feeling sabishii**

Jacqueline woke up and knew it was one of these days.

An aphasic day.

The sun was shining brightly but her mood was perfectly gloomy.

Her ears ached because some stupid birds were chirping.

Well, at least that was something she could change.

A blink of her eyes, a swirl of her lashes and a happily purring, drowsy tomcat was lifted from the garden's daffodil bed up to the tree.

The cat was surprised by the sudden change of scenery.

The birds were surprised by the sudden change of neighbourhood.

To Jacqueline's profound joy the cat recovered first. Munch-munch-munch the little velvet mouth made and the preposterous birds had entered ancient history. Well, as a tiny footnote, but still...

With a content little smile the sorceress-who-had-once-worked-as-a-waitress-because-the-world-was-too-stupid-to-appreciate-her-value fell back on her pillow, snuggled up under her bed cover and began to seriously analyse the underlying causes of her aggravation.

Had she had a bad dream? But no. She realized it wasn't a dream when she reached out for her lover's arm and it wasn't there.

Jim Moriarty, the first and only man who'd seen through her outer appearances and recognized her real qualities, her singularity, wasn't there.

Only now the previous night's events came back to Jacqueline's reluctant memory.

A few days ago Jim had told her he'd leave the country for a while. For Switzerland. Something to do with Sherlock Holmes. Again! Blast the man! Blast Baker Street, this idiotic doctor, the Secret Service imbecile and each and anyone else who had something to do with the self-styled Consulting Detective.

Last night Jacqueline had fallen prey to her loneliness and, yes, let's admit it, her curiosity.

She had looked into her crystal orb. Once and for all, she had a fuckin' _right_ to know what was going on between the man she loved and that supercilious idiot from 221B.

Remembering what she had seen was painful, sickening. A premonition of Jim and Sherlock, clinging together, inseparably intertwined, falling, falling, falling...

Falling to their death.

Jacqueline looked at the picture on her bedside table. A picture of her and Jim.

Oh, the memory of the night he'd walked into her life to find love and eternal bliss – all right, so actually he _had_ walked into her café because he'd been cold and in need of a caffeine shot but who gave a shit about such details – was still agonizingly fresh and clear.

They'd looked at each other, her green eyes, his dazzling black orbs had met for the first time and then he'd ordered an espresso. Spoken by this sensual voice of his, accompanied by a look ….. dear God, this look from two dark pools full of desire and promise ….. the word "espresso" had been the most erotic combination of syllables a human being could think of.

From this moment on, her life had changed course, had taken a road to adoration and fulfilment working its way up to the perfect climax of Jim Moriarty asking her to marry him.

Jacqueline's tear-filled gaze fell on the ring on her finger. She'd known falling for Jim would be dangerous but that had been part of the attraction. However, the pain she felt now...

Briefly the sorceress stared out of the window again – perhaps there were some other birds in reach? Some more feathery, innocent, lovable little creatures the cat might devour so that a horribly suffering woman might at least have some company in her misery?

Alas, the birds had taken their clue and vanished.

The cat was asleep.

Lucky him.

With a sigh, Jacqueline rose and walked over to the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her. A girl with brown hair; her eyes as green and as changeable as the sea in winter with all the sadness of a year's death.

She fought down another wave of tears. She knew Jim was dead. The magic, her magic, the magic she had shared with him willingly, which she had given to him as a protection in the cruel, unfeeling world out there with its childish rules and laws, unable to realise what a gift James Moriarty was – this magic kept flowing back into her since yesterday, robbed of its hold, of its sanctuary. Because this sanctuary was gone. Because _he_ was gone!

Almost overwhelmed by a wave of sudden nausea she ran, stumbled, darted into the kitchen, grabbed Jim's black dressing gown and buried her face in it. Cool silk caressed her hot cheeks and a weak whiff of this smell stroked her trembling nostrils. This smell, _his_ smell, the smell she would never forget...

All of a sudden another picture popped up in her mind, unwanted, uncalled for but unavoidable. A premonition of him, of the demon, the murderer of her life's happiness. A premonition of Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock, the man who should be lying dead on the ground of the Reichenbach Falls, side by side with the greatest man who'd ever lived, Sherlock Holmes was laughing, talking to his brother, in a restaurant in the London West End. Very, _very_ much alive.

Jacqueline knew her magic. Knew that it wouldn't – actually couldn't – fool her on a thing like this.

For a second she sat motionless, utterly still. She drowned in the picture of the man she hated above all else. With painful fascination she explored the despicable vision of the killer enjoying himself at Jim's expense, enjoying his life...

Until she suddenly shot out of her seat and ran again. Ran through the house, searching, searching for hours on end. Until she found what she had been looking for. A book of spells.

The searching was renewed, she looked and read until her eyes got tired but finally she came across the perfect spell.

"How to bring a loved one back from the dead."

The spell was risky, she knew that, too. Risky for anyone involved. For the sorcerer, the person to be brought back but most of all for the most unwilling person of all who had to assist her in the experiment.

For she would need blood for the ritual.

Good news was, a few drops would suffice.

Bad news was, she couldn't use anyone's blood.

It had to be taken from the man who'd killed her loved one.

There were other conditions to be met. Some minor difficulties. Nothing she couldn't muster or conquer. So, all right, it included a dog's laughter, a cat's tears, pig's ears, a zombie in love with her and some mud from A REALLY HOLY GRAVE – on the latter the book was extremely adamant – but she could do it. She knew she could. Because she had to.

However, this blood thing...

The donor of the life's blood that should bring back James Moriarty from the dead had to be Sherlock Holmes.

Alive.

Conscious.

Unable to do anything about it.

So far, so good.

The question was – how on earth should she achieve that?

**A/N: Sabishii is the Japanese word for melancholic, sad or being unhappy in a romantic, sensitive way. Like a cherry blossom falling from a tree, dandled by a soft breeze while at the same time killed by it.**

**Like it?**


	2. A cat, a dog and Sherlock Holmes

**2.**** A dog, a cat and Sherlock Holmes**

As it turned out, Jacqueline had _not_ taken care of every little detail when she'd prepared for her first real life observation job.

Which was extremely annoying.

First, because she'd been born with an obsession for detail.

Second, because she'd been very proud of her preparations.

She'd went about this operation methodically.

Step A: Find out Sherlock Holmes' present location – check.

No magic, but Jim's highly illegal yet highly functional hacking access to London's CCTV-System: Sherlock had accompanied Mycroft to his office.

Step B: Find out how to blend in with this place – check

No magic, but google street view: The office building was surrounded by small shops or restaurants filled with young business women. Smart skirts, smart blouses, nylon stockings and high heels.

Piece of cake.

Jacqueline took jeans, her favourite old shirt and her most comfortable sneakers from her wardrobe, dressed, combed her lavish brown mane with her fingers, muttered a spell – eh voila.

Dressed to kill. Ready to make the front page of Vogue.

Just for the fun of it she skipped public transport and teleported to a discreet spot near the perfect starting point for her hunt; a tiny, ridiculously expensive restaurant across the street of Mycroft's second home. The man's _first_ home was definitely his club.

Her costume fooled anyone.

Her own feet included.

Jacqueline wasn't used to high heels. _And_ the restaurant had no seats.

It was pure, unmitigated torture.

Incredulous Jacqueline looked at the other women around her; chatting, laughing, perfectly serene and comfortable, with their ankles balancing precariously at least 10 centimetres above floor level, their – if limited – body weight pressing down mercilessly on two hapless pieces of flesh and bone, not bigger than a two pounds coin.

Now, _that_ was a magic Jacqueline had never mastered. Somehow the others must have turned their charming soft little feet into plastic hooves!

The sorceress was so pained – and fascinated – that she almost missed Sherlock leaving the building.

Seeing the detective's features, Jacqueline was grateful for small mercies. His face was stormy and as long as a fiddle. He was definitely troubled.

The witch left a ten pound note on the table for her two coffees – she'd never been a believer in giving tips to other waitresses - and made a hasty exit.

Actually, she did not make it very far.

Her feet had gone numb.

That was good.

Her feet had also gone limb.

That was bad.

She only found out about the latter when her nose made hard contact with the ground.

The male guests were fascinated by her skirt crawling upwards all the way. Therefore they were mostly mute.

The women were fascinated by her clumsiness. Therefore they giggled and whispered and guffawed.

Now, _that_ was a mistake.

As time went by the following events became a part of city legend.

Never before and never after had all the women in one single London restaurant toppled over at the same time because their high heels had suddenly broken off their shoes.

Some spoiled their clothes, some sued the shopkeeper, some broke their ankles.

Which was, in Jacqueline's opinion, no more than they deserved.

Anyway, the sorceress had more important problems.

Sherlock was almost round the corner before she finally caught up with him.

To her surprise he did not call a cab but went back into the building, for the parking spaces beneath.

The great detective driving himself when he could hire some poor bloke to do it for him? Impossible.

And really, Sherlock had no such intention.

The bloke of choice, in this case, was female.

Blond, timid, fragile, hopelessly out of place in her funny clothes. The T-Shirt miraculously managed to mismatch with each and every colour of the well-worn jumper. As the wool jacket's design had been inspired by a sick rainbow, this was no small achievement for a shirt _that_ old and washed out. Her jeans were light blue, or had once been. The only compliment one could think of was that they were clean, as they'd obviously been taken fresh from the tumble-dryer, with no detour via the flat iron.

The jeans were too large for her, as much as shirt and jumper were too tight.

To Jacqueline she looked utterly adorable.

Sherlock, however, found other words for it.

"Small wonder my brother's staff went nuts when you drove in without authorisation, Molly Hooper. You _do_ look an absolute fright!"

She swallowed. She blinked. Her cheeks became red.

And then she smiled.

Watching this smile Jacqueline thought that the young blonde must be as brave as she was stupid. Falling in love with James Moriarty had been dangerous. Falling in love with Sherlock Holmes was the emotional equivalent to a death wish.

"I thought you might need a lift" Molly now said with a small, nervous voice. "With John being in Scotland for a week…. I mean ….. I just thought….maybe you could use some help…..?"

Sherlock shook his head. "How often did I tell you that you should _not_ think, Molly? You lack even the most rudimentary ability."

Her eyes went wide and she gulped again.

"_Bastard_" Jacqueline thought hidden behind her pillar. "_Cruel, heartless bastard_!"

"So does that mean you do not need a lift?" the blonde asked anxiously.

She flinched when Sherlock took her by both shoulders. "Molly, listen carefully. I do _not_ need a lift, I do _not_ need a friendly chat and I most certainly do not need _you_. Not now, not ever. Do you understand?"

"Yes" she whispered.

"Good!" Sherlock let go of her and turned away. Walking out he looked back over his shoulder and added sharply "Just to make sure you _do_ understand: I do not want you to come anyway near me again! Period!"

Disbelieving that she had heard correctly Jacqueline stared after him. With her lower jaw hanging open she then watched Molly Hooper standing as if frozen in place by his last words.

Maybe she was. They had been cold and brutal enough to outdo most curses Jacqueline knew from her spell-books.

It took the witch an effort to remember her purpose and she ran to reach her target.

Luckily Sherlock had stopped outside the building for a minute to wait for his elder brother. Both men walked on together, Jacqueline, covered by some simple magic, in their wake.

Mycroft took one hard look at the younger Holmes' face and smiled. "I take it you've been the perfect scarecrow once more?"

Sherlock shot back at once, but with a peculiar hint at defiance in his tone. "I took a lot of trouble to get John and Mrs Hudson safely out of the way, I can't afford having Molly hovering in my back, not now!" Angrily he stared at Mycroft's ironic frown. "And she's not a crow."

"I wasn't referring to Miss Hooper's ability to mimic a bird; I was referring to your natural ability to scare people off."

Sherlock snorted, but said nothing.

"What did you say" Mycroft tried again. "Tell her about the dangers of your professional life? As a misunderstood hero and saviour of us all, you're sadly and regrettably sentenced to eternal solitude?"

"_If_ I'd told her about the dangers in hunting Moriarty's last associate down, she'd never left me alone" Sherlock retorted through gritted teeth. "I had no choice but to hurt…"

Jacqueline stopped listening. As it was, she stopped altogether and let the two brothers walk away.

Holmes _knew_ about Jim having an associate, someone who'd want to avenge his death!

That _was_ bad news.

An unsuspecting Sherlock Holmes made no easy victim for kidnapping, especially if he could not be injured or otherwise hurt before the ritual. But a Consulting Detective who constantly looked over his shoulder; a MI 6 bigwig Mycroft who watched baby brother's back with all his might – Good Lord!

How on earth should she rope him in now?

A nebulous shade of an idea formed in Jacqueline's mind. She thought about it, conjured it more concretely, looked at it from all angles, tasted it, turned it hither and thither – and smiled.

Yes, that might do the trick.

And it had some poetic justice in it. The woman he'd hurt so cruelly would be his downfall. The wom_**e**_n actually.

Quickly the witch turned round and walked back to the office building, the parking space, the lower deck, and heaved a sigh of relief.

For there she still was, Molly Hooper, moping on her driver's seat. Pale, mournful, smaller-than-life and more splendidly isolated than the late British Empire.

The blonde woman winced as a hand touched her arm out of the blue. "You're not well, love?" Jacqueline said sympathetically.

At once Molly straightened her back, made a futile attempt at rubbing her face dry with her hands – which wasn't very wise, not with all this fugitive mascara on the loose – and stared angrily at the other woman. "I'm fine, thank you" she snapped. "Can't you see that?"

"Actually, I can't" Jacqueline replied. "To me you look like someone who needs a hug and a hot cocoa. With cream!"

Molly's stare, visibly quite against her will, turned from defensive to adoring. "How…. how…. d…d...d…do y….y….y..you know?" she snivelled and Jacqueline was in danger to melt away any second.

"It's easy" the witch said gently. "You know, I can read minds."

"Can you?"

"Naturally I can" Jacqueline replied, who, naturally, could not. But she didn't tell Molly that from this face, these begging eyes, this swollen nose and trembling shoulders the desperate need for a hot, sweet drink and a long, good cuddle wasn't so very hard to deduce.

Molly Hooper was a willing victim for Jacqueline's ensnaring tactics and ten minutes later the two women, now both dressed in dumpsite-style quite alien to the London city, sat in another coffee shop. Before them big heaps of chocolate's revenge, both liquid and solid; inside them a quickly growing feeling of harmony and peace.

Jacqueline's well-being was increased by her feet nominating her for the Nobel Peace Prize because she rid them of these gruesome shoes.

Molly felt better because someone was listening to her.

In no time at all Jacqueline could go in for the coup de grace. "You know" she said conspiratorially, "by chance I overheard your quarrel with your boyfriend earlier. You're sure he's right for you?"

And Molly's last dikes burst.

"He treats me like a dog" she exploded. "He always does. And I feel like a dog. A kicked dog. I love him. I'd die for him. I'd do anything for him. And he treats me like a dog." Suddenly her sadness was substituted by a genuine, healthy wrath. "You know…" she began, grabbed the other's arm wildly, digging her nails into Jacqueline's skin, "…you know what this dog would want? Just once? To laugh at _him_ for a change. To see _him_ helpless and ridiculed and embarrassed and not knowing what to do! Just _once_ in my life!"

Her anger spent as quickly as it had flared up, Molly shook her head ruefully. "But it'll never be like that, will it. I just stand no chance." She looked at the sorceress with a gaze so very bitter it would turn the sweetest Tokaier wine of all Hungary into vinegar. "You are not like me, Jacqueline. With these green eyes of yours. You're no dog. You're a cat. And cats don't cry."

"This cat does" Jacqueline said without thinking. "And also because of Sherlock Holmes!"

Molly almost fell off her chair with surprise. "You _know_ him?"

Jacqueline, too late regretting her spontaneity, decided to go for broke. "I do. Much better than I'd like. He's responsible for my husband's death and I will never forgive him!"

"You hate him?" Molly said, suddenly insecure. "Would you…. I mean…. You would not want to _hurt_ him, would you?"

"I would" the witch said. "His vanity, his pride in his abilities, his belief in his singularity, his superiority…."

"Yes, yes, yes" Molly interrupted impatiently. "But you wouldn't actually _hurt_ him?"

"_Where's the difference_?" Jacqueline thought, confused by the insistence on a meaningless trifle. For a man of Sherlock Holmes' character, there _was_ no such difference; except, of course, for physical hurt or even extinction being preferable to humiliation any time. In this, the Consulting Detective and the Consulting Criminal had an awful lot in common.

However, Jacqueline knew better than to tell Molly that. "Of course I wouldn't" she replied softly, reassuringly. "What do you take me for? But you said yourself he needs a lesson. Will do him a world of good, you'll see."

"A lesson?" Little, unsuspecting goldfish Hooper was slowly swimming back to the hook.

"Nothing bad, just a glimpse at how the other half feels. You _do_ want to pay him back in his own coin, don't you?"

"Yes…. Yes…. I think so….."

"There you are then. And it's so easy. It's like a game, just a harmless bit of fun."

"You have a plan?"

"I have. And I would want you to join me. Us women, we should close ranks if men try to walk over us."

"What… what would I do in your plan?"

"You know what? I'll tell you step by step, when the time comes. First of all – can you tell me where I could find your Sherlock now?"

Molly giggled. She was nervous, but she was also excited. Intoxicated perhaps more by the thought of having found a real friend than by anything else. "Sherlock is pissed-off because he has to see Andersson at Scotland Yard. The man's a forensic specialist but he and Sherlock loathe each other. Mrs Hudson, that's Sherlock's landlady, told me. She'd heard Sherlock tell John Watson, that's Sherlock's flatmate by the way, that he would have to see Andersson about a boring, idiotic case he couldn't _not_ take on because of his brother Mycroft although he'd much preferred to wait for John's return from Scotland. John was angry, but he left nonetheless. Had to, I suppose."

Molly looked sad again. "That's why I thought, with John away I mean, _I_ could help Sherlock with this case. Show him that I'm not useless." She fumbled with her fork. "He and John have become close friends, working on cases together. and I thought….." her voice faded away, she shrugged and looked out the window.

Jacqueline's brain worked overtime to sort through this weird heap of rapidly spat out information. Finally she concluded that Sherlock for some mysterious reason had packed off his associates to Scotland and planned on using this man Andersson to capture her, as she was _Jim's_ associate. Question was, did Sherlock already know her identity?

"You say Sherlock doesn't much like this policeman?" she said, just to keep Molly focussed.

"Despises him" Molly giggled. "Always calls Andersson a zombie!"

In Jacqueline's brain things fell into place and made a picture. Almost complete. A dog, a cat, a zombie dancing around a stake. And guess who'd be tied to it.

"This forensic specialist…the zombie..." the witch drawled musingly.

"Yes?" Molly was all eagerness.

"He's not by any means gay?"

"Who? Andersson? Don't think so. Why?"

"I wonder if I could make him fall in love with me" Jacqueline said. "Now wouldn't that be simply marvellous?"


	3. Let magic happen

**3. Let magic happen**

"Andersson?" Molly asked incredulously. "You want _Andersson_ to fall in love with _you_?" There was no need to say more, her face, aghast at the thought, was an eight hours audio book about the subject. Yet, Molly being Molly, she did not leave it at that. "I mean…. the mere idea….. you're so gorgeous and he is…. he is….. "

"A zombie" Jacqueline said as calmly as you please. "And that's exactly what I need for my plan. A zombie who falls in love with me!"

Molly stared at her, a bit shy now. And more confused than ever. "I say…" she stammered. "I mean…. He's not really a zombie…. It's just what Sherlock calls him…. I guess, to the great Detective we're all zombies, one way or the other…."

"It all makes sense now" the witch replied. "Sherlock killed my fiancé, therefore everything revolves around him. He's magic's focal point in this. You're the dog, I'm the cat and Andersson is the zombie."

Molly's lashes fluttered but it didn't help her brain along. Which, as Jacqueline had to admit, was not so very surprising. Not even the Holmes brothers could have made heads or tails of this enigmatic twaddle. "You know what, Molly" she added energetically "you come home with me and I tell you all about it. It's not a subject one could talk about in public."

By then Miss Hooper was by far too entranced by her new mysterious friend to take reasonable precautions. Arm in arm both women walked to the nearest taxi stand and took a cab to the witch's flat. Molly's car, as Jacqueline reassured her in a virtually purring tone, could be left where it was for the upcoming weekend.

Once inside her living room with its lavish oriental decorations in blood red, emerald green and gold, Jacqueline shut all doors and windows before she sat down by Molly's side. "A tea, my dear? The spices are from the West Indies!"

"No thank you" Molly said most politely. "I'm quite full."

Suddenly Jacqueline found herself in a very awkward and unfamiliar situation – e.g. at a loss as to how to break the great news to someone who was at once so very trusting and so absolutely clueless.

Luckily, Molly came to her aid. "You said you had a plan for Sherlock?" Her features were a bit shocked, a bit terrified, a bit fascinated and a bit begging. It was clear that the surroundings and the whole atmosphere overwhelmed her and spontaneously Jacqueline decided to take her clue from that.

Pompously the sorceress took the other's hand and stroked it gently. With a grave face and an equally grave voice she said "First things first, my dear. We are going to do great things together and we must proceed with care and utmost caution. I must begin with a question: Do you believe in the supernatural?" The speech was accompanied by a deep, soulful look into Molly's eyes.

"I beg your pardon?" Molly said nervously

"I'm talking about magic, my dear" Jacqueline retorted, not quite as sombre and patient as before.

"Magic!" How…. I mean, where are you going with this?"

As Jacqueline's patience was one of her less evolved character qualities, she became snappy. "Heavens, don't you get it? I'm a witch!"

"A witch" Molly said and it sounded like "aha!"

Which wasn't very encouraging for the witch in question.

"I see you need proof" an unnerved Jacqueline said, raised her hand and all of a sudden a book flew from the shelf into her hand, missing the other woman's head by a hair's breadth.

Molly gawked at the book. "_Granny Oggelvie's recipes for a happy home and husband_!" the title read.

It wasn't exactly what Molly would have expected from a magician's bookshelf, but – even so… if it could fly….

Belatedly, the Bart's assistant's scientific education kicked back in. "How did you do that" she asked punitively.

"It" Jacqueline said, with her last shreds of self-restraint being under terminal pressure, "was. magic. I. willed. the. book. to. come. to. my. hand!"

And this time Molly voiced her - preliminary - opinion aloud. "Aha!" _Never finalize a statement before you've seen all the facts_. The age-old wisdom had brought her through all her exams, just fine.

Jacqueline decided to take that for a sufficient answer. After all one could not expect miracles during the first half hour. "I can do other stuff as well" she said mysteriously, leaving the kind of 'stuff' to everybody's imagination.

Molly's fantasy life, however, had other cornerstones to consider right now. "Ok" she said cautiously. "Let me get that straight. So you're mad at Sherlock because he killed your husband…..

"Yes" Jacqueline hastily interrupted. "But he was not really my husband yet. My fiancé. And you know who he was. You once dated him. Jim Moriarty."

Molly darted up, as far away from Jacqueline as the furniture would allow. "Is that why you brought me here?" she asked distrustfully. Scared really. After all – this book had been heavy and covered in hard leather. "Because you're jealous of me?"

"No" the witch sighed exasperatedly. "Naturally that was _not_ the reason. I brought you here because I want your help. _Need_ your help, actually. Because I want to bring him back."

"Who?"

"Jim Moriarty" Jacqueline said and her tone added "_Almighty Lord, let the skies rain brain where it is direly in need_._ Start here._"

"From the dead?"

"Molly, please, do me a favour. Imagine, just for a second, that we're back at school. Say it in a whole sentence."

"You want to bring back Jim Moriarty from the dead with _my_ help?"

While an angelic smile of happiness slowly graced her beautiful features, Jacqueline nodded. "Yes, my dear. That's correct."

"And that plan involves Sherlock Holmes, too?"

"Right again!"

Molly pondered that for a moment, thinking hard on all the possibly implications, as the deep frown clearly indicated. "All right" she then said, quite the business woman. "What's in it for me?"

To say that Jacqueline was surprised by the sudden change of attitude would have been a gross understatement. "_Still waters run deep_" she thought, puzzled, and decided to tread more carefully. "I know you like Sherlock" she began slowly.

Molly nodded violently.

"And I can get him for you with a love spell but for that I need some of his blood."

"Sherlock's blood? You're going to hurt him?"

The alarmed exclamation meant that the witch went from veiled threat to comforting purr-purr in zero-time. "No, of course not. Would I do that to you?"

"How should I know?"

"_Indeed_" Jacqueline had to confess, if only to herself, "_h__ow should you_?"

"All I need is a little blood" she said as reassuringly as she could. "Just a scratch. He may not even feel it. A few drops for me, to bring my love back. And just a few more drops for the love-spell, to make him eternally yours."

"A love spell" Molly retorted with a bitter smile. "That's what it takes to make him see me. Isn't it. Force, like a Walther PPK. Love me or die."

"It won't be like that…"

"Oh, won't it? Sorry, but to me, it would and therefore…." Molly grabbed her bag and things and turned to the door. "It was nice talking to you, Jacqueline, but you've misread me. Sherlock may see me as a dog. That does not mean that I _am_ a dog. I want him to _love_ me, you see. I never said I intend to rape him. I'm too precious to myself for that."

She was halfway out of the door when Jacqueline shouted the first thing that came into her head. "He already likes you. Thinks the world of you. I heard him say he scared you off just to protect you."

Molly turned round. The tears were back in her eyes. "You're lying. And you're not very convincing. You're just mean." She twisted her mouth in disgust. "You're like all the others. Ordinary."

"It's true, Molly. Forget about the love-spell, it was a stupid idea, I'm desperate, you know. Your Sherlock is after Jim's former associates, which means he's after the most dangerous men I know. Let me have my way, let me have Jim back, and I guarantee Sherlock will never again be molested by the Consulting Criminal or his organisation." No sense to mention that Moriarty's last remaining associate wasn't a man at all; _and_ that she was standing in front of Molly Hooper right now!

"I _swear_ it!" added Jacqueline, breathless with anticipation.

"How could I believe you?"

"May my magic be lost to me forever if I betray you!"

Outside, distant thunder rolled through the sky. The clouds had become black sometime during their talk. A peculiar, unnaturally warm wind rattled the window and found its way into the room.

Jacqueline didn't feel too well. Why had she said that?

Apparently, Molly noticed nothing of it, as she continued staring at her counterpart. Probing. Questioning.

Finally, she dropped her bag and walked back to Jacqueline. "If" she said emphatically and drew a deep breath ".. _if_ Sherlock is hurt somewhere in the process, no matter how, no matter who's fault it is, I swear you'll regret the day you were born!"

Jacqueline swallowed painfully. She'd always thought herself a fair judge of character, but this strange person…. Obviously there was more to Molly Hooper than met the eye. "Do we have a deal then?"

Molly nodded again. "Yes!"

Jacqueline held out her hand and Molly shook it, just once, but firmly.

"Now" Molly said "what exactly _is_ the great plan?"

Eagerly, and more than a little relieved, Jacqueline reached for "_Granny Oggelvie's recipes_".

"Sorry" Molly intervened "As I said, I couldn't possibly eat right now."

"This isn't for cooking, this is for spells. Witch spells. Granny Oggelvie has once been very famous. The greatest witch of her time."

"And you're going to resurrect Jim Moriarty with a spell '_for a happy home and husband_'?" Molly giggled.

"Wouldn't you be happy if you were called back from the dead?" Jacqueline snapped, feeling more than a bit insulted.

"Granny Oggelvie did that a lot?"

"She was a great woman. Some husbands she freed from hell, some she sent there. It depended."

"On what?"

"On her mood, I'd presume. Oh, here it is. See?" and Jacqueline showed Molly the spell in question.

"So _I'm_ going to laugh my way through the ritual, _you_ are going to cry, Andersson is going to…. do whatever enamoured zombies do in witch's spells, Sherlock is the 'donor unwilling'….." Molly gave Jacqueline a hard look.

"So what, I haven't worked out all the details yet" the sorceress growled. "I'll have to do some research. Magic is a science, after all."

"Since when" asked Molly with a dry, sarcastic note.

"What do you know about it? I'm the witch here. And don't you worry about your precious supercilious asshole, he'll live."

Molly preferred not to talk about that right now. "How long will it take?"

"We'll have to work quickly. We've only got six more days."

"Why?"

"Because after that, Watson and this unendurable landlady will return from Scotland and I'm pretty sure, once Sherlock's faithful doggy…."

Again, Molly gave her 'ally' a hard look.

Jacqueline rolled her eyes. "… All right, all right, once _Dr Watson_ keeps lurking in Sherlock's back, our chances to catch him, perform the ritual, get away with Jim and release your beloved Detective, all of it undisturbed and undetected, are practically nil. And I take it you want Watson to be spared as much as Sherlock?"

"You bet I do!"

"See? My thought exactly."

Molly looked at the spell more closely. "Pig's ears and mud from a REALLY REALLY HOLY GRAVE? '_A loss hard and painful, a corpse once worshipped, a death much grieved, in a house most beautiful'_? What could that mean?"

"As I said, I'll know when I have to! One thing is clear already: It must have some connection to Sherlock Holmes, as much as anything else."

"Maybe we should ask _him_." Molly still sounded a trifle giddy. "Sounds just like the kind of puzzle he likes."

Offended by her lack of seriousness and reverence for the art of witchcraft, Jacqueline snatched the book away from her. "First things first, remember?" she said. "Andersson is our first target."

"Right" Molly retorted, doing her very best to suppress her increasing merriment. Oh, as long as nobody would be hurt – and she _would_ make sure of that! – this would be _so_ much fun. Imagine, Molly Hooper in the centre of a magical conspiracy to safeguard the man she loved. Sherlock would finally see what she was made of!

"Andersson" Molly said. "As the book says nothing about being in love with the witch voluntarily, and as we've not much time left, how about using your love spell against him? If it is only to entice him away from this insufferable Sergeant Donovan, it would be worth it!"

"Donovan who?"

"They're having an affair, according to Sherlock. Albeit Andersson is married. He'd never divorce his wife, though. Can you imagine, Andersson enticed Mycroft Holmes, of all people, to invest a fortune – some of it must have been Sherlock's really - in a scheme that went awry. Not that he much cares about money. Sherlock, I mean. Usually. But the money was lost when the financial markets perished, all of it, _and _Sherlock had always told his brother that Andersson is an imbecile. Now Mycroft's breathing fire down his neck, so Andersson signed the house, and what precious capital he'd left, over to his wife."

"Bad times for Sergeant Donovan, then!"

"Sounds like it."

Jacqueline's eyes began to sparkle. In the light that came through the half closed red curtains her irises looked almost purple. "Can you describe this Sergeant Donovan to me?"

Molly's face showed some definitely devilish hints, too. "Sure. What are allies for?"


	4. Trick or treat?

**4****. Trick or treat**

Molly opened her mouth for a description of Sergeant Sally Donovan but she shut it again and shook her head. "It's no use, Jacqueline. Mrs Hudson asked me to tell Sherlock that Andersson sent word he'd be at Scotland Yard's Halloween Party tonight, with Donovan. I was to tell Sherlock that he, Andersson that is, could therefore not make it to the original rendezvous. You see?"

"Rubbish" the witch said "Sherlock wouldn't be Sherlock if he'd not know where to find Andersson. They're all going to be at that party. We'll join them there. Piece of cake."

"Sherlock Holmes? At a _Halloween Party_? Can't be."

"This time he will. He's in a hurry, remember? Just like us."

"But we're not invited. And at the Yard, there'll be all sorts of security protocols."

"I'm a _witch_" Jacqueline said pointedly. "This is _Halloween_? I'm going to invite us."

"I've got nothing to wear!"

"_What you are wearing now would do just fine_" Jacqueline thought, but she restrained herself in the last second. "Leave it to me, Molly" she said instead.

Jacqueline rummaged through her trunks and for a while, Molly just watched her silently. Then she couldn't stand it any longer. "I still don't see why we should go to a party where we're not wanted."

"I need Andersson to fall in love with me, pronto. He can hardly love me without meeting me. So he'll meet me. Where can he meet me? At a party. People get to know each other on parties all the time. In case you haven't heard!"

"I'm not an idiot you know" Molly took offence. "I'm just saying it's not very probable that the zombie starts liking you when we're causing scandal. By the way, does Sherlock know you?"

Jacqueline, who had so far been hunched over her cases, rose with a deep frown. The question had been haunting her since she'd eavesdropped on Sherlock's conversation with his brother. "I don't suppose he does" she encouraged herself more than Molly. "Perhaps he knows that Jim had a lover, I mean, a fiancée. But I'm pretty sure he never saw me. At most I'm Miss Clockson to him, but he doesn't know my face."

Molly wasn't satisfied; obviously her faith in Sherlock's abilities to know it all, and most of it before it happened, was indefatigable. But then she smiled happily. "It wouldn't matter, would it. Not if we're masked!"

"Yes, well…." Jacqueline was distracted, searching through her stuff again. Another minute and she rose once more, triumphantly pulling some black material high up in the air. "There it is. I got that after I sat my second exam in advanced sorcery."

"What is it?" Molly giggled again, definitely excited. "Another scheme of Granny Oggelvie's?"

Jacqueline gawked at her. "How did you guess? Yes, it's an original Oggelvie costume, has been passed on from mother to daughter for generations. We're her descendants, you know. The Oggelvie family, that's us. My Mom, my two sisters an' me."

"What about your father?"

"Don't know. If you're an Oggelvie by birth you do not need a man in the house."

"But someone fathered you, right?" Molly sounded awkward again.

"Well, yes. Somebody else fathered my sisters, respectively. My mother was an attractive woman and men are so stupid."

"Except Jim or Sherlock" Molly stated firmly.

"Of course. Jim's the smartest person I know and as to your precious Detective…."

"_Careful_" Molly's stormy face said. "_Careful_!"

"…Jim once said that Sherlock Holmes is the only one who could hold a candle to him," Jacqueline said quickly. "So he must be smart, too, I suppose."

Molly, apparently, was gratified. "What's so special about this dress?" she asked merrily, looking at the shimmering black silk.

"That's a chameleon's robe" Jacqueline replied proudly. "They're very rare. Witches would kill for it."

Molly stared wide-eyed at the door, then at the windows.

"Fear naught, ducky" the witch said. "No sorceress will jump out of the fireplace to wring your little neck. The robe will obey only its rightful owner. To any other magician it would be useless. Just a rag."

"But… what can it do? Can it fly?"

"No. But it's a magical mask. You can be whoever you want, in the blink of an eye."

"Oooh" Molly said, disappointed. "But you could mask as a business woman before, just by a spell. You did not need the robe for that."

"I could change my _clothes_" Jacqueline groaned, unnerved. "This robe will turn you into somebody different, into whom you want, for as long as you want and where you want."

"If you say so."

"Look, Molly. It's all very easy. We will go to this party, I shall entice Mr Zombie, and you can have a little flirt with your beloved Sherlock. As yourself or as somebody else who takes your fancy, or _his_ fancy rather, as long as you get some information out of him. What the Holmes have in mind for Jim's surviving associate and where Sherlock will spend the next three or four days. Understood?"

"Ye…yees…. I guess…"

"Good. Now we both get dressed and then we're off."

"But what am I going to wear?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Wait a minute….. there you are." And Jacqueline pulled a second dress from her wardrobe; like the first one a flimsy, tiny looking thing with no apparent top or bottom in shimmering silk. Just not black but emerald green.

Molly looked at it critically. "That's too tight for me" she finally said, blushing a deep, embarrassed purple. "I mean… the top would do, with these almost-no-breasts-at-all of mine, but, the belly…..and green is not exactly my colour…."

"It's a one for all" Jacqueline tried to comfort her. "Granny Oggelvie's remember? You try it on, it adapts to your measures."

"I… I'm not a witch…"

"No, that much is obvious. Although, forgive me for saying it Molly, you _could_ do with a bit of the ego-boost witchcraft can give a woman… now, c'me on, try it on, we do not have all night."

Thirty minutes, a shower and a hair wash with a magical gel as well as a two-seconds magical manicure later, Molly felt more gorgeous than ever before in her life. She looked into the mirror and was stunned. The robe was… perfect. As was the feather mask that went with it, the make up and the glittering shoes in green and gold. By her side Jacqueline was her perfect mirror image, but in black and silver.

"You know, I think he won't ignore me." Molly said blissfully. "Not even Sherlock can overlook me in that. It's a beautiful, beautiful dress."

"If he does, turn into someone else. Someone he can't ignore. Just whisper the name to the first diamond button of your dress and you'll be another person."

Molly smiled sadly. "That's not what I want…" she began, but Jacqueline had no time for such nonsense.

"Fine then, lets go" the witch said, grabbed Molly's shoulders and turned her to face the sorceress. "You wanted to fly, Molly? Then hold fast!"

"Oh my God… oh my…." That was as far as Molly came before the racing wind made her breathless. They flew; flew like two colourful paradise birds, high up in the air above all the chimneys of London, until, after far too short a journey, they landed on the roof of the New Scotland Yard building.

"That was…. That was…." Molly stammered, her eyes glowing with excitement from the unbelievable flight, but then life's realities caught up with her with a vengeance. "My hair!" she shrieked. "Oh, it must be a mess. You did it so wonderfully…"

"Relax" said Jacqueline, and it was clear that she could do with a bit of R&R herself. "Magic, remember? Your hair is gorgeous, believe me!"

"But…"

"No buts, no ifs and nothing else! Where does this darn party take place?"

"In.. in the great hall I think.."

"Right. Next stop: great hall. C'me on, Molly Hooper. Destiny's calling!"

Loud music led the way long before the two women could see anything.

Inside the great hall all kinds of masks, hideous or elegant, dull, conventional or fanciful, danced around, chatted, drank, flirted or – watched the hurly-burly from the side.

"Oh, look, there he is" Molly softly exclaimed as she spotted the lean figure in an ordinary jacket, ordinary pants, ordinary shirt but with an extraordinary dour face. "Sherlock. Seems as if he's not found Andersson yet."

"Then go and make sure that he does not, for at least another thirty minutes. Go on, that's what you're here for!"

Her heart visibly racing in her throat Molly did as she was told, while Jacqueline made out to hunt down her own prey.

Somehow she'd known she'd find Andersson and Sally in the rest room area. Jacqueline had had a lot of different bosses in her life. Each and everyone had tried his luck, always at some party, always in the restroom area. Two of them were still on the 'reported missing' list. So far their more or less mourning wifes – if only grieved by life insurance not paying up – had not hit on the idea of talking to some of the frogs and toads in the park.

A whining, spoilt and presumptuous voice from around the corner distracted Jacqueline. "Sally, please, I love you. I love you, my pet, I really do." This had to be Andersson.

"But I can't go on like that" a female voice replied, heatedly, angrily but on the brink of tears. "Do you know how it makes me feel? With your wife picking you up after work and Lestrade telling me next time he sees us, he'll have me transferred?"

"Oh, Sally, it's even harder for me. Day and night I'm dreaming of the two of us being together. But it's impossible right now."

"Timoteus…"

"Tim, please, Sally, you know I hate my name…"

"_At least he's got some common sense left_" Jacqueline thought. "_Timoteus, for heaven's sake._"

"Tim, we both have our salaries. My apartment is paid, I've no debts left, why the hell can't we live together? Let your wife have the house and the money, we don't need it."

"You do not know what you're talking about, my sweet."

"I'm talking about _us_, Tim…"

"And I'm talking about a handsome million for the house _and_ the accounts in Zürich!"

"But your wife brought it to your marriage; let her have it back when the marriage is over. She gave it to you. It's only fair to let her have it now; it's her father's fortune, not yours."

"_Sweet little lamb_" Jacqueline thought derisively. "_With that nutshell-sized brain, I can only hope you have the body of a goddess_."

While Andersson coughed his throat sore to hide the fit of laughter that threatened to overwhelm him, Jacqueline sneaked up closer to the couple, to get a better look at Donovan.

What she saw impressed her. Not exactly a goddess, no, but definitely an attractive woman. The chocolate coloured skin, the radiant black eyes, the unruly mane of shimmering hair, and the tall, slender figure… not bad. Not bad at all. And these legs in the long burgundy skirt with the fancy vent – It would be a pleasure to slip into that role.

Which brought a thought into Jacqueline's mind. The poor lassie was clearly in love. So desperately, head-over-heels in love that she couldn't think straight. One look at Andersson with his spindly physique, long nose, weak chin, chicken's breast and the parsimonious, selfish attitude - Jacqueline was all up for a revenge crusade on the other woman's behalf.

Before this day was over, dear Timoteus would not know whether he was coming or going.

Right now, though, he thought himself quite master of the situation. "I'll not let go of this kind of money just because you are getting hysterics" he snarled at Sally Donovan. "And stop the demented snivelling, you look a mess already!"

With a soft, anguished yelp Sally pulled free from his hands and ran away, down the corridor, towards the Ladies' entrance. Her not-at-all-loving beloved snorted disdainfully and headed back to the party.

"_Perfect_" Jacqueline thought, making haste to reach the Ladies'. "_Absolutely, totally, __indisputably perfect_!"

A few minutes later a marvellous looking, irresistible vamp with the outer appearances of Sally Donovan made her way through the bunch of party-guests, leaking pure carnality from every inch of her flesh. While the real Sergeant was peacefully napping under a warm bundle of coats and blankets in the restroom's storage chamber, the crowds parted for her magic twin like the Red Sea once had done for Moses.

The woman in the burgundy dress left all men – well, _almost_ all men, as New Scotland Yard prided themselves on their tolerance and modern attitude towards all life-styles – gawking and drooling after her. The women, however, visibly harboured different feelings in their sore and wounded little hearts. Feelings which the word "jealousy" would only insufficiently describe.

"Tim" Jacqueline/Sally said with a timbre somewhere in between a cat's most lascivious purr and a ravenous leopard's gnarl "my sweetheart. Please, oh, please, what can I do to make you forgive me? I can't live; I can't breathe without knowing you love me."

Ten long, sharp, burgundy-red nails combed through the pathologist's hair; a gesture of desperate female desire. They drew one drop of blood and Andersson was under her spell, in a very literally sense. Jacqueline/Sally's swelling body pressed against him, her lips searched his and – eyes closed, moaning, senselessly enraptured – she sank into his opening arms.

The music stopped. All people fell quiet, watching, devouring what was going on in the centre of the room, in a spotlight that had, like by magic, changed its focus all of a sudden.

Only the woman at Andersson's side, a lean, handsome, elegant blonde with a smart but warm-hearted face, attractive although her first youth was clearly gone, was much less impressed by the show. "Kindly take your hands from my husband, _if_ you please!" she said coldly.

Seemingly breathless, Jacqueline pulled away from 'Tim', who at once reached out to hold her close. Her face was swimming in tears, her eyes were wide; her pulse racing under the soft skin of her throat; she was wringing her hands in open distraught like pleading for her very life and each and everyone in the room thought that he'd never before beheld – nor ever would behold – a more beautiful person in all their lives.

"Mrs Andersson" the witch said, with a voice that, in the fascinated silence all around them, rang from the walls. "How glad I am that all is in the open now. Finally. I thought my heart would break if we were to betray you one single day longer. The truth must out, it always must. I love your husband and your husband loves me. Keep the house, the money, everything, if only you let him go. We do not need a penny to our names; or a roof over our heads, if only our love can be fulfilled!"

Everyone was moved, except, of course, the addressee. "Who is this woman, Tim?" Mrs Andersson demanded to know of her husband. "Is she deranged, or is this some kind of idiotic joke? Answer me!"

"I love her" Tim replied recklessly. "I love her. Sally, I can't live without you. Never leave me again, Sally, Sally….."

"This does it" his wife hissed through gritted teeth "this really is the very last straw." Andersson's cheek showed an impressive bruise almost immediately after she'd slapped him. He blinked, not knowing what was happening to him.

With the utmost resolve, her chin raised and with a clear and strong voice, the blonde woman turned to Jacqueline. "Take whatever you want, _Madam_. We'll all meet Monday next week in my lawyer's office and settle things in private. For the kindness and consideration you showed me when displaying yourself like that in public I can only wish that my _ex_-husband may treat you as he's treated me in all the years of our marriage!"

"_Formidable_" Jacqueline thought. "_Splendid woman, simply splendid. What on earth __makes two classy women fall for a zombie like Timoteus Andersson_?" Briefly something like a guilty conscience sneaked on Jacqueline's mind, but it passed. After all, she was doing her sex a favour by showing Andersson to his fellow humans as the complete asshole he was.

Meanwhile Mrs Andersson turned on her heel and marched out with the grandezza of an Archduchess. From some of the women huddled in a corner came spontaneous applause.

Only now some sense of reality seemed to leak back into poor deluded Timmy. "Belinda" he called weakly after his wife. "Belinda, wait…."

It was in this moment that a strong, angry fist grabbed him from behind and turned him round forcibly. "Haven't you done enough for one day!" Lestrade said viciously. "Now shut up or I'll throw you out, both of you. Get lost. Get out of my sight."

Jacqueline thought that for some reason she was glad she had no dealings – and no quarrels – with the DI. Hastily she dragged her alleged lover towards the door.

All the way it was ridiculously easy to ignore the poisonous curiosity all around her. Only Lestrade's eyes burned a hole into her back. But, never mind. She was one big step closer to her final goal. The zombie was hers, lock stock and barrel. Which left one last objective to be achieved…..

The witch had a quick glance round for Molly and Sherlock. With a silent sigh of relief she spotted Holmes by the door, talking to a woman in a green silk dress. Thank God.

One thing was odd, though. The Consulting Detective, of all persons, seemed oblivious to the soap-opera drama happening right under his nose. His attention was solely centred on his counterpart.

Only on Jacqueline/Sally's arrival he noticed that the pathologist was sleep-walking in her wake, and the Detective's gaze at once became alarmed. "A moment, Andersson. You and I have an appointment…"

"Can't…" the other man slurred. "Belinda…. Sally…."

"What have you given him, Sergeant?" Holmes demanded angrily. "Your little show act shouldn't hinder my investigation…."

"_So much for him not noticing what happened_" Jacqueline thought with a sound portion of remorse. She had underrated him. She should not do that again.

"I'm disappointed to hear it" the green-clad woman now interrupted, turning round. "Didn't you just promise to spend the next three or four days with me, Sherlock? In a place of my choosing?"

Sherlock huffed. "Don't be ridiculous Irene, I promised nothing. I've an urgent case to solve and I…."

Jacqueline, quite against her will, missed the rest of the sentence. She was far too baffled by the fact that Holmes' female companion was a perfect stranger. Middle height, dark, lustrous hair, a fine figure and a most arrogant, self-assured smile under the green feather mask. Yet suddenly she remembered where she had seen that severe, non-voluptuous and yet so beautiful mouth before. On a photo Jim had shown her. The most dangerous woman in London, at least where Sherlock Holmes was concerned. Adler. Irene Adler.

"Oh, this boring associate thing" the Dominatrix now sighed, playing with …. was that Sherlock Holmes' _earlobe_? "I mean, Jim Moriarty is gone, can't you catch his sorrowing accomplices later? Give us a break. Do it for me! You owe me."

"It was _me_ who saved _your_ skin" Holmes snapped, pulling his head away from her. "Not the other way round!"

"That's what I'm saying" Irene miaowed longingly. "I owe you my life, don't you owe me some attention for that?"

Jacqueline thought she'd figured it out, but now she was doubtful again. Was that…. Could that reckless hottie be Molly Hooper? The chameleon's robes were good, but _that_ good?

"Don't" Andersson suddenly addressed Sherlock, albeit visibly bewildered by his own action. "Don't let her…."

"Oh, shut up and come with me!" Sherlock and Jacqueline both said it at the same time and each of them grabbed one of the pathologist's arms and pulled.

To say that the intermezzo had once more captivated people's unwavering attention would have been an insufficient description and a fire-breathing DI thought it time to intervene.

"Get _out_ of here, the lot of you, before I forget myself. Sherlock, I cannot for the life of me remember me sending you, or this lady, an invitation in the first place….."

That was as far as he came, before Holmes' stare wandered to something behind Lestrade's back, something that made the Detective's eyes become bigger and bigger, until they almost bulged out of his head.

Slowly, Lestrade turned round.

There, in the entrance to the corridor which led to the restrooms, stood a much deranged but unmistakable Sally Donovan, rubbing a vicious bruise on her brow, looking dazed and accusing at the same time. "You" she drawled loudly, pointing at her magical twin. "You attacked me."

"Sally…" Andersson said, smiling like the imbecile Holmes knew him to be.

The guests, especially Lestrade, looked from one Sally Donovan to the other when the pathologist left the stylish version and staggered towards the much more real-life edition of his lover. In midway his eyes rolled upwards and he collapsed on the floor.

The DI's fist hit a button in the wall and a loud alert pierced marrow and bone. To top it all Lestrade shouted "security!" as loud as he could.

In the blink of an eye a whole pack of security men stormed the hall, collided with the panicking guests, turned their heads here and there and where completely lost as each and every senior officer present tried to take command of the mission. In vain Lestrade tried to make his voice heard over the clamour.

"Jacqueline, please, help me" the alleged "Irene" pegged to the witch, now very much Molly Hooper again. "What shall we do?"

All of a sudden, like lightning, Jacqueline was struck by the revelation that this was her one chance in a million. She had them all together in one place. The dog, the cat, the zombie and the donor and who gave a shit about pig's ears and a Holy Grave?

Four or five security men were coming for them and, on reflex, Sherlock went into a defensive stance.

"Allow me" the still like a dolled-up Sally looking witch said and shoved him to the side. From somewhere in the spirit world the revered ancestors seemed to spur her, Granny Oggelvie's voice prominent among them all, barracking for her directly from Satan's favourites' den.

In a deafening cacophony of breaking glass, shattering furniture, screaming loudspeakers and people crying in the wind that suddenly roared through the rooms, Jacqueline's magic flowed completely free for the very first time in her life. No restraint, no consideration, no holding back. Columns of ice-cold fire suddenly sprang up in the four corners of the great hall. At the same time rain flogged bare skin, defenceless faces and tearing clothes. The whole building shook violently under the raging onslaught of the supernatural powers.

"Halloween" the sorceress yelled, hilarious with bliss and total happiness. "Halloween. The spirits are roaming the earth. Hear them come. Hear them call for us!"

From that moment on, Scotland Yard was doomed.


	5. Broken Strings

**5 Broken strings**

Nobody could say Gregson Lestrade was a waste of taxpayers' money.

Furniture of limited aerodynamic qualities flew, an invisible lunatic DJ mixed alien music at far too much decibels and crazed taps flooded the floor with a variety of liquors – the latter for shame, as a time-honoured standing order banned alcohol from the Yard. Yet, riding roughshod over his own best interest, the DI fought valiantly for order in the maniacal havoc.

"Get people out of the building" he yelled until his voice cracked. Alas to little avail, as nobody listened. The security personnel was either caught in a Gordian Knot of human arms, legs and clothes or they clung to something for dear life on the slippery ground while the still able bodied party guests stampeded all around them.

When at least some of the hysteric crowd miraculously found one of the exits unaided, Lestrade decided to let things have their way. Every cowherd would finally come to a standstill; hopefully human beings could achieve the same high level of intellectual decision making in the end.

The DI turned his attention to the small group from where disaster had come. His wife had exiled him to the guest room for heaven might know how long, just because he had, quite involuntarily, got himself roped into the planning committee for this feast. Now he would have his revenge on the Damsel who had ruined _**his**_ party.

Right now, he cared little as to _how_ Sally Donovan had achieved this ruin. Most probably furniture and beer taps were manipulated by some 'funny' installations which now malfunctioned. It was also easy to guess that her alter-ego, who'd just emerged from the restrooms, should function as a magic hood for the base trick Sally'd served Andersson and poor Belinda. "_It wasn't me, Sir, it was this other woman who'd dressed up like me_" or something like that. "_I'm a vict__im in this, Sir, just like the others._"

Well, it wouldn't work with Gregson Lestrade! Sergeant Donovan had run her race in his department and no mistake!

By the way, where _was_ Sally II.? With an effort, Lestrade spotted the torn burgundy dress and the doubtlessly even more battered figure under some desperately struggling male legs in a vampire costume, both soaked by spirits flowing from just another illegal cask. Well, let her.

The DI had bigger fish to fry

And naturally, Sherlock Holmes wasn't far from the weird action. Somehow the man always managed to be in the thick of it. Rather than not, he'd found out about the plot and caused this chaos by manipulating whatever trick machines Donovan had dragged along. That was just like the malicious child hidden in the great Detective, to embarrass his two arch-enemies in front of their colleagues.

Snorting with rage, Lestrade stamped towards 'Sally', Sherlock and their respective companions. They stood close to the door which was hopelessly blocked by a small but intransigent tornado of people running in circles.

Suddenly the Inspector stopped and stared, and stared again. In front of his very eyes the woman he had thought to be Sally Donovan ….. _morphed_! Gone was the red dress, the chocolate skin. The creature he now saw was ghostly pale under a black feather mask, with a flying mane of chestnut hair over an equally black dress that looked like a snake's skin.

It was the last thing Lestrade saw before a bolt of lightning somehow came from the creature's hand, hit him in the chest and sent him off to merciful oblivion, where he was spared all further troubles.

Although – that wasn't quite correct.

Somewhat later the executive floor gathered that something was foul in the state of Denmark and came to throw their weight around. Unfortunately, closely followed by the Yellow Press.

The frenzy of camera flashes bathed what looked like an insane Broadway revival of the Rocky Horror Picture Show in an unearthly light while the Superintendent, not amused by the media's amusement, searched for someone to blame.

Lucky him.

There was still a DI who hadn't climbed the trees on count three. Peacefully snoring Gregson Lestrade lay in a puddle of – oh yes, that as well – cheap champagne.

That was _one _deep slumber most cruelly and gruesomely disrupted.

Well.

Shit happens to the very best of us.

Doesn't it.

At least that was what Sherlock thought, three hours later, as it gradually dawned on him what he had gotten himself into.

When she watched him come to, Jacqueline could actually _hear_ him think it.

She suppressed a grin. Yes, shit happens, even to those who'd been so very haughty and superior before!

Jacqueline remembered that, when everybody had tried to reach the door, Holmes had darted in the opposite direction. Like Lestrade, he'd disbelievingly watched her morph into her true self in exactly the same second as 'Irene' changed back into a very frightened Molly Hooper.

That had been the first time Jacqueline had heard his thoughts. "_Dear me, that trick is worth a noble price_."

Holmes stood, rooted to the spot, only a few steps away from her.

Lestrade fell, the panicked guests one by one made it out of the hall but the Detective did not care. He noticed the dreamlike state of the pathologist, but it was the woman in black who turned his face into a model of extreme fascination, silently crying "_how on earth can she..._"

Jacqueline lowered her arms and shoved a spaced-out Andersson behind her back. Molly hid behind a column, hopefully out of Holmes' sight.

The sorceress took off her mask. The hellish noise stopped, as abruptly as it had begun. As if they were placed in a bubble of surreality, invisible and inaudible to the outside world. "Mr. Holmes. Pleased to meet you."

He came over his shock very fast, she gave him that. "Miss Clockson. What an unexpected pleasure. May I ask what you are doing here?"

"What does it look like?" she asked while she glided closer to him. "As Jim once said, every fairy tale needs a good old-fashioned villain. So does every horror story!"

"That's Jim Moriarty, I presume? He was a horror story in the sequel, to be sure, but what has it to do with you? Or them?" Sherlock pointed at Andersson and Molly. "By the way, how did you do it?"

"You would like to know, wouldn't you. The know-all who's finally seen the inexplicable. Oh, it must gnaw on your inside, like sulphuric acid!"

Sherlock shrugged. "Being clueless is a bit disgraceful, I can't deny it."

"Sooo..." Jacqueline drawled "you were victorious when you lashed into the Consulting Criminal, but can you handle his witch girlfriend?"

"Witchcraft" Holmes snorted sarcastically. "Oh c'me on, you can do better than that. And how come you delude yourself? Moriarty was in love with no one but himself."

"Think what you want. It doesn't matter. You want my motive, fine. You killed my fiancé. Jim was my life!"

Holmes slowly shook his head, never taking his eyes off her. "I did not murder Moriarty. He committed suicide. He tried to take me with him. I prevailed, he fell into the trap he'd set. Doesn't that make a difference?"

"Why should it? You still were the cause of his death, his nemesis" Jacqueline retorted accusingly.

"The latter I take for a compliment. As for the rest, I advise you to throw your engagement ring into the dustbin and move on with your life. Consider yourself fortunate you're free of him without having your little heart put through the mill by this expert in cruelty."

Jacqueline blinked away most unwelcome tears. She wasn't good at repartees at the very best of times, and now she'd been deeply hurt by her adversary.

Holmes looked around. "If I were you I'd leave before I'm caught by the Yard's nitwits" he said lightly. "They're so fond of their dull offices and rooms, they might take offence at your redecoration."

The Detective turned to pick up Molly and Andersson before he followed his own advice and left. He almost convinced the sorceress – and doubtlessly himself – that he was no longer interested in her or her 'tricks'.

He recoiled when the black silken figure suddenly appeared in front of him, out of nowhere. He almost yelped.

"You don't get it" Jacqueline hissed. "Jim was the only one for me and I will have him back!"

"He's dead. He won't come back."

"He will. With your help."

"You're deluding yourself again" Sherlock said acidly.

"Am I?" Jacqueline asked back. "Am I really?"

"Sherlock, take care..." Molly said weakly but it was too late already.

How very satisfying it had been for Jacqueline when her spell knocked him out cold.

Only minutes later the four of them had re-materialised inside the old, vast cellars beneath Jacqueline's home.

The witch had had no time to prepare things for them, but – what of it. Some spells and some quick housewife work later, all was in place. She had all the time in the world to slip into something nice and comfy, brew a Valerian tea for Molly and return to the cellar scene to watch Sherlock come to.

Andersson stood in the corner where she'd parked him. He hadn't moved an inch since then. Instead he'd started drivelling. "Clean him up, will you" Jacqueline said, disgusted by the sight.

Molly, on the other hand, had no such scruples. Like a mother she wiped the pathologist's face clean. "Maybe we could take off the handcuffs?" she suggested, nodding at Sherlock's limp form. "They hurt, don't they?"

"Not while he's asleep" the witch snapped back. "And later on we'll need them. Stop whining!"

Molly wasn't happy but she shut up, much to Jacqueline's gratification.

As, five minutes later, Sherlock had still not shown any willingness to rejoin the ranks of the sentient beings, Jacqueline had given him some resounding slaps in the face, which caused some angry screams of protest from Molly.

One of these measures showed the desired results and Holmes woke up with a groan. When Jacqueline grabbed his shoulders to sit him up he kicked violently and she jumped out of reach. "Try that again and I'll hog-tie you!" she shouted.

"You're welcome to try" he retorted, unflinching.

"Not quite as you planned your encounter with Jim Moriarty's associate, is it?" Jacqueline could not restrain herself. She had done it, she had captured the mastermind, just like that. Single handed. What's that for a first strike at capital crime, eh?

To her profound disappointment, Holmes grinned sarcastically. "You're doing yourself too much honour, Miss Clockson. I was after Colonel Sebastian Moran, the only man who might take over from the late Moriarty. I have no time to waste on Jim's sex kitten!"

Jacqueline's face competed with the colour of a blood-red Chinese Lantern. _Moran_? Sherlock and Mycroft were hunting Sebby-the-idiot (Jim's own words!)? And 'sex kitten'? An Oggelvie witch a _sex kitten_?

Holmes gasped when invisible hands strangled him. He struggled against his bonds until the lack of air paralyzed him. Jacqueline let go in the very last second before he fainted again.

It took him some time to recover from the assault. "Mind to tell me how you do this?" he asked as soon as he could, his face very pale except for two red spots on his cheeks, yet his ice-green eyes fearless and cold.

Albeit grudgingly, Jacqueline stepped back. Truth be told, she admired his defiance. His hands chained to a massive post behind him, his feet tied, at the mercy of an enemy with incalculable powers and still he would not back down. God, how she loved this type of man, this kind of spirit. Almost like...

The witch called herself to order. Every comparison between this conniving scum and her adored Jim was out of the question! "If you want to play tough, fine" she replied boldly. "I do not need your cooperation. On the contrary, the more you hate this the better the spell should work."

Sherlock screwed up his face in feigned anguish. "Oh no, not that supernatural nonsense again. You're no more a witch than I am a merlin with wings"

Jacqueline felt she was on familiar ground now. "Leave Merlin to me, after all she was one of my ancestors. History always got that wrong, she wasn't Arthur's friend, she was his lover but naturally the bards never wrote that little detail down."

Holmes turned his head away. Obviously he considered Jacqueline a madwoman from whom he'd never get a satisfying answer. "Molly, make yourself useful for once and tell me what this nonsense is about!"

"She will …. do something with Andersson, as he's a zombie" Molly pointed out most reluctantly. "I'm the dog, Jacqueline is the sad cat and then we will need pig's ears and mud from a really holy grave. Finally she will take your blood and bring Moriarty back from the dead. Piece of cake?" She looked away, blushing. Nervous, awkward and desperately wishing she were anywhere else.

But then, all of a sudden, Molly's gaze came back to Sherlock. "You always treat me like a dog, you really do" she yelled, as if that would explain anything at once. "Can't you see what you're doing to me? I want to help you and you push me away, every time. I had this incredible dress; I looked great and still..." she paused, breathless, hyperventilating. "...still I had to change into your bloody Irene to catch your fancy. Can't you see what that means? To me? I can do whatever I want, look gorgeous, learn the damn whole Encyclopedia Britannica by heart, use lipstick, brew coffee, nothing, _nothing, __**NOTHING**_ ever works with you. You go on humiliating me, make me feel small, idiotic, stupid... today you will feel how I have felt all this time. You had it coming, you really had!"

Bewildered, not knowing what else to say to make things clear to him, Molly stopped.

Sherlock stared at the usually so very timid blonde, baffled. "I did not know..." he finally began but didn't go on. "I had no idea..." he tried again, but still it wasn't what he wanted to say to her. He cleared his throat, stared into her excited, wounded face and finally shook his head. "What a mess!" he said and somehow they both knew that that was the only right thing to say under the circumstances.

"Yes" Molly said helplessly. "What a mess!"

Jacqueline felt a bit left out. "You two love-birds should have a real long talk about things" she reminded them of her presence. "_After_ we've brought back Jim from the dead! Now, as you're so very clever, Mr Holmes – where can I get pig's ears at this time of night?"

Sherlock let his head fall back to the ground and closed his eyes, looking exhausted, murmuring something about a distinctly female kind of lunacy.

Molly sobbed once, Jacqueline sighed. Well, she _had_ said she did not want his cooperation.

Suddenly, softly at first, then louder and louder, Sherlock began to chuckle. Whilst both women did not trust their ears he roared with laughter. "As Molly said" he gasped in between the spasms that shook his whole body "a piece of cake!" And then he laughed so hard he couldn't speak.

Molly gawked at him.

Jacqueline gawked at him.

Great. Just what she had been waiting for.

Who was it who'd said that lunacy was a _female_ vice?


	6. A recipes ingredients

**6.**** A recipe's ingredients**

"SHUT UP!" Jacqueline's order was accompanied by an angry outburst of her magic which she could not – indeed _would_ not – stop. It hit Sherlock Holmes in the face like a hard slap and his head snapped back, until it hit the solid wooden post with some force.

Holmes stopped laughing.

Molly said "ouch". To nobody in particular. But then, Molly Hooper wasn't the particular type.

Jacqueline enjoyed the sight of awe and wondering in the Consulting Detective's face. So, Mr 'I-know-all-and-I-do-not-believe-in-magic', how's that for a supernatural phenomenon? I'm standing two metres away from you!

Sherlock closed his eyes in visible frustration and inhaled sharply before he spoke, through clenched jaws, "all right, this does it. You will _end_ this, understand? _Now_!"

"If you think I'll just untie you and show you out, think again" Jacqueline snapped. "Why were you laughing? What's so funny about pig's ears?"

The following conversation ignored Molly Hooper's physical and mental existence completely, but, as she was used to that, she just listened and kept quiet. Her thoughts, though, were working over-time. This wasn't going anywhere, or, to be more precise, wherever this went to, it wasn't a nice place. Perhaps – she and Sherlock should make haste to go somewhere else?

Holmes, meanwhile, had come to a decision. No matter what this was, what was happening here, it was nothing he wanted to endure much longer. As none of the two women seemed inclined to set him free, there was only one line of tactics left to him – the 'going around Mycroft without getting into an even deeper mess' strategy, or, in less words: Play ball, get free. Which meant, the younger brother would gain a maximum of escape by giving a minimum of satisfaction to the elder one.

Nice game, Sherlock kind of liked it, really, as he was usually the victor. Although Mycroft might dare to differ. Well, what of it, elder brother wasn't here.

Sherlock had another captor to defeat.

So, Jacqueline suddenly was face-to-face with a somewhat more cooperative prisoner.

"Pig's ears" Sherlock explained patiently – or what he thought was patiently - "are, as I said, a piece of cake. Or rather, pastry. 'Schweinsöhrchen' is the original German word, it's a literal translation, 'Schwein' for 'pig', and 'Öhrchen' for 'little ears'. You can buy them in every German bakery."

The witch tapped her foot on the ground, her personal equivalent of drumming her fingers angrily. "Do you think I'm dumb, Sherlock Holmes? Why should Granny Oggelvie use German pastry for her spells?"

"Miss Clockson, please take my word for it – you do not want to know my opinion on your mental abilities. Just believe me, for both our sakes, that there are many Ogilvies in Germany and that names can be anglicised if needs be. Where are we?"

Jacqueline was a bit at a loss. It had always been her problem – give me half an hour if you want me to give a good repartee. "Why should I tell you where we are?" she asked and not even to herself that sounded very impressive.

"I" Sherlock said, the overly careful pronunciation unendurably arrogant, "do like German pastry from time to time. Not Schweinsöhrchen, obviously..."

Jacqueline found nothing 'obvious' about it, and the easiness with which he used this jawbreaker of a German word made her feel like an idiot.

She would have loved to break _his_ jaw in retaliation, but, quite oblivious to her seething inner rage, Sherlock just went on "aa a result I know every single German bakery in London. So, hoping that you can now follow my drift, I ask you again. Where are we?"

Stunned, Jacqueline gave him her address, just like that. He nodded – politely, as that always helped to keep _Mycroft's_ rage at bay – and in turn told her where to buy Schweinsöhrchen. In the middle of the night. Or rather, the small hours.

This was, after all, London.

"Molly, would you..." Jacqueline said, with a sick feeling that she had lost control of the situation, and the other woman snapped out of her dreamlike state.

"Yes, sure.." Molly said reluctantly, albeit she appeared in some haste to get out. She grabbed her jacket and bag, all the time muttering "Schweinsöhrchen, Schweinsöhrchen" to herself under her breath, to the best of her abilities.

Which wasn't very good, actually. The word experienced an astonishing metamorphosis in her mouth, a whole world of language development in fast motion, from one muttering to the next: "Swinemopre. Slimeore. Swimorsken" until she reached the final stage of "Smörebröd", which, unfortunately, wasn't German at all.

Sherlock gasped out in tortured anguish. "Molly" he exclaimed "for God's sake, try pig's ears. It's the pastry that is German, not the bakery staff!"

A minute and a crimson blushing Molly later, Sherlock and Jacqueline were alone, but for blank-faced Andersson drooling in his corner.

"Mind to enlighten me on the last ingredient, too?" the witch hissed at her captive. God, how she hated being outsmarted. And on her very own field of expertise! Oh, she would make him pay for this, she really would.

"The mud from a really holy grave?" Sherlock asked, sounding thoughtful.

"Yes" Jacqueline howled in triumph. "I knew you wouldn't know!"

"It is, correct me from wrong" Sherlock said with exaggerated precision "_you_, Miss Clockson, who styles herself a magician. May I therefore presume on your ancient wisdom and ask you for a few details about the nature of this grave?"

'_A loss hard and painful, a corpse once worshipped, a death much grieved, in a house most beautiful" _Jacqueline found she had no other choice but to give in and quote from Granny Oggelvie's book. "Does that ring a bell with you? By the way it must have some connection to you, Mr Holmes, and to the rest of the ingredients."

Sherlock thought uncharacteristically long on that one. But then he grinned like the proverbial Cheshire Cat again. "A loss hard and painful, a corpse once worshipped, eh? And connected to me, as well as to dumbass Andersson here?"

"Yes!"

"Lehmann Brothers! The office building of Lehmann Brothers! It's so obvious, I didn't see it at first."

"There is _nothing _obvious about it!" Jacqueline screamed in a high pitched voice. "Nothing whatsoever! What has the bank to do with anything?"

Sherlock sighed and turned his eyes to heaven. The hapless genius, pained and wronged by the mere presence of an inferior mind.

"If you may wish to recall, Miss Clockson" he began "the Western world's hardest and most painful loss during the last few years, wouldn't you say that the financial crisis fits the jobdescription? What corpse has been more worshipped, over which carcass have the cruelly bereaved cried louder than that of their most unfortunate fortunes, recently gone the way of all flesh? And it _is_ a beautiful building. Or so people say, I for one do not much like the front glass panels. Do you?"

Jacqueline was by now reduced to stammering, she could not help herself. Yes, she hated him, but, wow, what a sorcerer he would have made. "What... it has to have a connection to you … as I said."

"It has, my dear, it really has" Sherlock answered in a mild tone. "Or, rather, to my brother. Andersson here took money from Mycroft, invested it unwisely, and it got lost. Phhhp. Just like that. Some foolish bankers were greedy and now my poor, poor brother considers himself a beggared man."

The witch was a bit disquieted by the subtext of deep, black satisfaction in that remark. "I'm sure your brother has still got his salary..." she said foolishly.

"Yes, but think of it" Sherlock retorted, dripping acid sarcasm "these expensive shirts, the silk ties, the handmade shoes …. how could _anyone_ afford these mere essentials of daily survival on a civil servant's pay? It's out of the question!" He sighed again, with sympathy feigned to perfection. "My, my, how will poor Mycroft _ever _cope? Don't tell anyone, but he has been seen in front of M & S!"

"You hate your brother" Jacqueline stated.

"Yes!" Sherlock readily admitted. "But do not get me wrong, other than that, we love each other dearly."

The witch began to feel distinctively dizzy, and dizzy was bad. Dizzy couldn't be allowed.

For what she had in mind, her head had to be clear.

Best get on with it then.

"You!" Jacqueline shouted into Andersson's ear, out of the blue.

The effect was amazing.

The forensic specialist snapped to attention and shook his head violently. His vain attempt at speaking ended in an inarticulate loud roar.

In more than one way the reaction resembled that of a Shar Pei dog.

Gagging all her way through, Jacqueline wiped the saliva from her face and shirt.

Sherlock, with his hands still cuffed behind the post, wished frantically he could do the same.

"You guard him" Jacqueline ordered "while I fetch the mud from the holy grave."

As she left the cellar, Andersson turned his dead gaze to Sherlock.

Holmes didn't want to admit it, but he was scared. The sight of that lifeless face, the empty stare – it was as if nobody was at home behind those eyes.

Well, not that there was much activity behind them even on the very best of days!

However, that wasn't much of a comfort when Andersson got down on all fours and shuffled towards the other man. He growled softly in Sherlock's face, and his gaze became a little bit more alert.

Something was going on in the knocked out mind, some residue of minor reason fought its way to the surface.

Andersson cocked his head to the left, to the right and back again. More than before he looked like a dog, not like an aggressive one, more – playful. And sympathetic, yes, that was it, definitely sympathetic. His face seemed to say something, could it be …... "_poor human_?"

"Good doggy" Sherlock said instinctively, retreating on his backside until the post and the handcuffs stopped him. "Fine doggy, good boy, did she not tell you that you are _not_ the dog? No – be a good doggy; Drop! Go away, go AWAY...!"

Holmes hyperventilated when he yelled as loud as he could "Miss Clockson... no, oh heaven, Miss …. _Jacqueline!_ Stop him...God, anyone, stop him, _**please**_..."

But it was too late.

In an indefatigable bout of true compassion, and with the solidarity one decent dog should grant another in times of unjust misery, Andersson stuck out the full length of his tongue and licked Sherlock's face from top to bottom and back again, his eyes closed in a state of utter enrapture.

Had Jacqueline been there, she'd had a hard time judging whose howl was the louder of the two.


	7. An unexpected pleasure

**7.**** An unexpected pleasure**

On their return, Jacqueline and Molly were most surprised to find Andersson curled up in a ball in a corner of the cellar, whimpering and sniffing quite miserably.

"What have you done to him?" ranted the witch.

Sherlock couldn't answer, he was too busy rubbing his face against the shirt on his shoulder, as if he wanted to rub the skin off. "Kicked him" he snapped back laconically, as soon as he was done. His cheeks were burning red and he was panting.

"Whatever for?" a compassionate Molly wanted to know.

"He licked my face!"

"Sorry for interrupting what must have been one of the most romantic moments in your life" Jacqueline threw in with a wry grin "but we have work to do. Molly, I need your help!"

The two women had the whole set up ready in no time at all.

Warily Sherlock goggled at the carving-covered table they had brought to the room's centre. It didn't look very comforting. Especially not with the strong, broad leather straps fastened to all four corners.

As it turned out he should not have worried about the straps, but about the paralysing spell Jacqueline muttered before she released the handcuffs and the ropes on his ankles. Holmes did not regain control of his body before his hands and feet were securely strapped to the table. He gasped when Jacqueline stuffed a rag into his mouth and fastened the gag behind his neck. "Sorry for that" she said merrily. "But we're done listening to pearls of wisdom dripping from your lips."

Sherlock struggled against his bonds, but it was useless.

To Molly, he looked like a child, a small child, struggling in his cot because he wanted to stay up a while longer. The young woman found an almost irresistible urge to laugh out loud tickling her throat from within.

Jacqueline, on the other hand, was still very busy. She unpacked the pastry Molly had brought fresh from the bakery. When she pulled the pieces out of the paper bag, she almost dropped them. Oh, it couldn't be true. This was impossible, it just _couldn't_ be!

Jim's favourites, his absolute favourite pastry. _These_ were _Schweinsöhrchen_?

Tentatively, she bit off a little bit, chewed and swallowed. Hungrily, she tried a bit more, and more, until she'd almost finished the first piece of pastry. Yes, it was the taste, it was the texture she remembered so well.

With a rash, angry gesture the witch wiped her face. But the tears had a will of their own, they kept flowing, whatever she did. The memory of that sunlit, comfy afternoon, when Jim had first shown this pastry to her – and all that come afterwards …...

Jacqueline was now crying openly.

Molly, on the other hand, lost her fight against the tickling in her throat. First she giggled, then she laughed out, louder and louder. She couldn't stop, she had a virtual fit of laughter. Sherlock writhing on that table like an old, misanthropic overturned tortoise – really, it was too funny for words!

Andersson slowly struggled to his feet.

Bewildered he looked from one to the other, from the struggling figure spread-eagled on the table, to the girl who was by now screaming with laughter, to the crying face. Finally he came to a sort of decision.

The forensic-specialist-turned-zombie sneaked closer to Jacqueline and tried to wipe away her tears; he produced cooing sounds deep inside his throat in an attempt to soothe her.

Angrily she pushed him away. To hell with him, how could he dare interrupt her reminiscence of her dead lover?

Andersson looked hurt. The rejection of his well intended approach ached like an actual injury. His gaze hurried through the room, hoping to find something that might comfort the sad woman by his side, he could not stand her crying. And really, he found something, on the table in front of him. A small tin can without a lid, and in it, the most delightful sort of mud any dog could ever imagine for a toy or a cooling balm if his fur was hot and itchy.

Eager to please, and sure of his success, he lifted the can to the crying being's eye-level. "_Look here_" that meant. "_Isn't it a fine thing? Would you be glad and play with me? Outside, where the sun is warm, and the world is friendly_?"

If he had had a tail, he'd loved to wag it. If there ever had been a moment perfectly suited for tail-wagging in his life, this was it.

The crying woman stared at him. She sniffed, and wiped her eyes with her paws. Eh. Hands, he knew it suddenly, women had hands, not paws.

But it did not matter.

He had her full attention now.

As he deserved it, for this really was the best of mud ever! He whimpered softly, to show her how much he wanted to be her friend. Maybe she would still go out and play with him?

Jacqueline looked at him, and at the can with mud in his hand, and suddenly she had a revelation.

With flying fingers, she grabbed a tiny pocket knife she'd brought for the occasion, and without hesitation, she cut into the soft skin of Sherlock's neck.

The cut wasn't very deep, but it hurt, and Holmes yelped under his gag, albeit more from surprise than from actual pain. He struggled harder, but still to no avail.

"What are you doing?" Molly screamed, still shaking from fits of laughter, but alerted to Sherlock's discomfort.

Jacqueline did not even hear her. As loud as she possible could, and just as fast, she yelled the spell from Granny Oggelvie's book at the wall, while the mud in the tin can slowly mixed with the blood trickling from the cut in Sherlock's neck.

The floor under their feet began to shake, harder and harder. The stone slabs burst, and stinking smoke escaped from the ground. A reddish light glowed, brighter and brighter. An unnatural laughter roared from some place within the earth.

Molly screamed in terror when a shadow emerged from the cracks in the floor; the shadow flowed in the air, gained substance, solidified, bit by bit.

All of a sudden, it was all over.

Molly had retreated to the darkest corner she could find in the once more dimly lit cellar. She was shaking with fear and excitement.

Andersson snuggled up against her, trembling with horror. His still paralysed mind could not even begin to comprehend what had just happened.

Molly felt him go limp, his body slided down until he landed on her feet, unconscious. Only now the young woman realized that Sherlock lay still, too. His head had fallen to the side, his eyes were closed and he was ghostly pale.

With a shriek Molly jumped over Andersson's body, and to Sherlock's side. Frantically she searched for his pulse, but she couldn't find one. Sobbing in despair, she tried again and again, but she was shaking so violently, she could even get a firm hold of his wrist.

"You killed him" Molly panted "you unnatural bitch, you MURDERED him!"

The witch didn't answer.

For Jacqueline Clockson wasn't really there. She was in seventh heaven. In her arms she felt the man she loved, his lips pressed hungrily on hers. Warm. Loving. And so very, very much alive. "Jim" she whispered "Oh God, Jim, Jim, Jim, my love, my life …."

The witch almost fell when he stepped away from her, a smile dancing in his amber eyes, the grin of a Mephistopheles, the smile she had thought would drive her mad if she should never see it again...

Gently, almost furtively James Moriarty laid his hand on Molly's ice cold fingers. "My dear" he said. "I'd never believed I'd see the day. What an unexpected pleasure to see you're on my side after all!"

Jim gasped with pain when she ran her elbow into his ribcage with full force. Molly darted round and punched his face with her right fist, with all the strength that despair and wrath lent her. "I am _NOT_ on your side" she screamed as he held his bleeding nose and backed off. "She promised me the world, your bloody harlot over there. Now he's dead, and I swear to you, I'll sent you back where you came from, and if it is the last thing I'll ever do in this world!"

Speechless, Jim and Jacqueline looked at the raving fury the timid, over-polite blonde had turned into. James evaded the chair Molly had grabbed to smash his resurrected head by a hair's breadth only.

"Sherlock is fine, Molly" Jacqueline shrieked in the highest falsetto. "He's just out as a light. A mere hour from now, and he'll give all the insults he can think of. He's fine, put the chair down!"

The three of them were panting heavily when Molly reluctantly lowered the chair. "You're sure?" she ranted at the witch.

"Perfectly" Jacqueline retorted. "Believe me, I know I'm not the kindest person in this world, but I wouldn't do this to you. I know you love him!"

Moriarty, wisely, decided to stay out of the women's quarrel. Besides, he could do with a little time to get used to the idea that his spell in the deepest hell had been a temporary assignment only.

Really, it was much to take in. One moment he felt Sherlock's vicious attack kicking his legs away under him, he fell, hit the ice cold water of the Reichenbach Falls, and sank, deeper and deeper, until his lungs felt like bursting and he couldn't keep his mouth closed, he just couldn't ….

Jim shuddered. People who said that drowning was an easy death sure had never given it a try; not in their own bathtubs and most certeinly not in an icy Switzerland waterfall!

The next moment, Jim remembered his eyes had snapped open, and there had been that stink, that evil laughter, more evil than his own most menacing chuckle, and the heat – this horrible, all consuming heat...

And now he was here, in Jacqueline's cellar. In one piece, alive, and with the woman he loved.

His witch. His Jacqueline. She had brought him back, as she had once sworn she would, should he ever get hurt.

It was unbelievable. It was a miracle. And yet it was true, he could feel his body, hear their voices...

Which reminded him...

"You know nothing, nothing, you're as dumb as bread!" Molly had just screamed, still the raging harpy. "How should he ever love me now, after you tortured him such?"

Jim's brilliant mind worked faster than ever before. Only now he fully recognized the man on the table. So he had not been mistaken in the first moments of awe and disbelief, the man on the table _was_ Sherlock Holmes!

Which explained an awful lot...

Moriarty's gaze wandered to the corner, and he grinned devilishly as he recognized the twisted figure on the floor. Andersson, the fool. Oh heavens above, would miracles ever cease?

Sherlock Holmes and the man whom the Consulting Criminal had swindled out of a veritable fortune. And of Mycroft Holmes' fortune, no less. Oh yes, Jim remembered every little detail of it, if that hadn't felt like Christmas and Easter coming together on one blessed day...

Lucky Jim back then, unlucky Jim now, the battle that ensued before him resembled that of Hells Deep, and he couldn't afford to lose his beloved Jacqueline!

"Molly" Jim shouted, and, when she did not heed him, louder again "MOLLY!"

"What?" the laboratory assistant yelled back, her fists raised to break every bone in Jacqueline's body even if it should be the death of them both. "What the hell do you want?"

"The hell" Jim hastily said "good clue. You saved me from hell, as much as Jacqueline did."

The witch clearly disliked that statement, she wanted to object, but Jim's forbidding look silenced her.

"Without you, Molly, my dear, I would not be standing here, on this beautiful earth" Moriarty went on in his most endearing tone of voice, "you deserve a reward, my precious. You really do." The resurrected Consulting Criminal smiled his best charming smile, the smile he knew could melt Molly into syllabub.

Alas, not any more.

His cheek burned when the palm of her hand connected, and the sound rang from the wall "Get lost, you bastard! There is no reward for me, you betrayed me, both of you!"

And she renewed her attacks on Jim's physical wellbeing with fresh strength and resolve.

Jacqueline waited for an opportunity to intervene that did not come. Molly was too close to Jim to use a spell without endangering him as much as his attacker.

There was nothing for it, Moriarty had to help himself out of his predicament as best he could.

"Molly, my sweet, you're misguided by your fears, understandable as they may be..." Jim danced around the room to evade her attacks whilst he spoke. "There is nothing Jacqueline cannot do, believe me, nothing at all. You want Sherlock's love, you'll have it. Piece of cake. Tell her, Jacqueline, tell her NOW... Oh God, OUCH!" His nose had got a second punch and he was sure this time she'd broken it.

"Do you think I want him paralysed in my bed, enchanted not by me but by Jacqueline's witchcraft? What kind of love is that, huh? I need a lover, not a slave!"

"Goodness gracious me, woman, where is the difference?" Jim shouted. "Women have been enchanting men one way or the other since the world began. Jacqueline has bewitched me, you bewitch Sherlock Holmes – why not? You're doing the oaf a favour, without you taking the initiative he'll die an old spinster!"

Molly, quite suddenly, put the chair down. "You really mean that?" she asked, wide-eyed. "I'll do him a favour?"

"Yes, sure" both Jim and Jacqueline hastily assured her. "A big favour. Think of his life, so very lonely..."

Her wrath spent, her natural insecurity taking over once more, Molly felt helpless and confused. "What... what would you do? I mean... it wouldn't hurt him any more, would it?"

"Oh, no, of course not" Jacqueline said eagerly. "He would love you, you love him, you'd both be happy for the rest of your lives!"

"You promise?" Molly asked, and it was obvious how very very much she wanted to believe that all would be well for her and Sherlock in the end.

"I promise!" Jacqueline said, with all honesty, and she meant every bit of it.

At least in that moment.

James Moriarty, with an angelic smile that was as real and reliable as fool's copper, nodded violently.

"And Andersson too?" Molly said. "You cannot leave the poor man like he is now!"

"And Andersson, too." Jacqueline avowed. "I'll find a solution for him, I swear it."

Behind his back, whilst he felt as proud and as satisfied as Satan himself, James Moriarty crossed his fingers when he made the same promise to Molly Hooper.

Sweet little blonde fool!

**A/N: Well, folks, next chapter will be the last one. Unusually short story for Dark Magical sorcres and me, but, hey, we're all busy with christmas preparations, so short stories are what we need.**

**Please, could you remember that review button?  
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	8. Two weddings and a fall from grace

**8.**** Two weddings and a fall from grace**

Sherlock stirred uncomfortably in his bed.

Something was wrong.

It took him almost no time at all to deduce that this was because somebody else was lying in his bed.

Slowly, oh so very cautiously, he felt for the other body.

Naked. Smooth. Warm. Sleeping. And...

_FEMALE_!

Holmes jumped out of the bed as if he'd been bitten by a snake.

Incredulous, indeed flabbergasted, he stared at Molly Hooper's face, that only now showed first signs of awakening.

Sherlock's frantic gaze raced through the room, taking everything in all at once.

Baker Street, 221B, his bedroom, early morning light (summer!), street calm (Sunday!), tea pot rattling in the kitchen (John!), murmuring in the kitchen (Mrs Hudson and John!) and MOLLY HOOPER LYING NAKED IN HIS BED!

Holmes raced to the door, and virtually jumped out of the room.

Mrs Hudson screamed at the top of her voice and made a run for it.

Watson turned, stared, stared again, and cocked a brow. "Really, Sherlock, going to Buckingham Palace without your pants is one thing, frightening Mrs Hudson quite another, bridegroom or no. Where is your sheet?"

Sherlock felt his cheeks grow hot and hotter. He looked down at his body and – yes, he was naked.

The first shock was quickly drowned by another – _what_ had John just said? _Bridegroom_?

Things added up in Sherlock's mind, quicker than even he was uised to. Bridegroom-wedding-Molly in my bed-Oh my _GOD_!

"I did not..." Holmes stammered "... I mean you're not telling me that I... I mean, I'm sure I didn't..."

John sighed. "Sherlock, please. I know you had a few drinks last night, it was your wedding, after all. But you can't have been _that_ drunk!"

"How drunk?" Sherlock howled.

"Everybody was there" John patiently explained. "Lestrade, I, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft. You do remember how happy you made your brother by asking him to be your Best Man, don't you? Mycroft was radiant with joy."

Sherlock had to close his eyes as the nausea threatened to overwhelm him. He was staggering on his feet, and his right hand searched for support by firmly grabbing the table in his back. "Please, John. Please tell me that this is a joke..." he stammered weakly.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock. You were happier than ever before when you gave that ring to Molly yesterday. You're going on your honeymoon tonight. Four weeks in Vienna, Mycroft pays for it. His wedding gift! Come on, we must get you ready. Where's your wife?"

"My who?"

John shook his head in despair, passed by his friend, and knocked at the bedroom door. "Mrs Holmes? Breakfast is almost ready!"

And out came Molly, in a bright red night gown that was open in a few daring places and closed just in the right ones. "Thanks for everything, John, you're such a good friend!"

"It's only once in a lifetime that Sherlock Holmes gets married!" Watson answered. "You look ravishing, Molly."

Mrs Sherlock Homes neé Hooper giggled like a young girl. Then she blushed, when she got a clear sight at her husband. "Sherlock, sweetheart, your clothes..."

It brought life back into Sherlock's limbs. He raced into his bedroom, searched for his clothes with flying fingers and a racing heart.

He could not find his clothes, nowhere. Instead he found a shirt and a suit he'd never seen before, very fancy, very expensive, with the label of Mycroft's personal tailor.

Well, what of it.

The evening suit seemed ridiculous in the bright light of morning, but all his other things appeared to be locked up in a huge suitcase standing in a corner, ready to go wherever it was bound.

Sherlock dressed and tried to clear his thoughts.

If this was a prank – and it _had_ to be – it was the most elaborate practical joke he'd ever heard of.

In pants, socks and the shirt, Sherlock sneaked towards the mobile he'd spotted on the desk by the window. Furtively he took it, always listening for every potentially threatening sound from the living room and kitchen. Damn, he was used to call this place his home, before they had turned into a very dangerous, very insecure place for Consulting Detectives.

What the hell had happened last night?

The last thing Sherlock could – with some painful effort – remember was that he had attended a Halloween-Party at Scotland Yard, had been kidnapped by Jim Moriarty's fiancée and then...

Wait, wait, wait, wait...

Halloween was an autumnal affair, of that Sherlock was sure. Now it was _summer_? At least six months had passed, judging by the light and the temperature, six months of his life of which he had no memories whatsoever.

Amnesia. Perfectly logical explanation. Amnesia, like in ... getting knocked over the head.

_Had_ he been knocked over the head?

Sherlock lost control of his legs and popped down on his backside where he stood.

The very, very last thing he remembered was Jim Moriarty coming back to life in front of his eyes, while he had been bound to a table!

Oh my God, oh no, no, no, NO!

And Molly had been there too, she had …...

Sherlock Holmes, usually a paragon of calm and dignity, now a trembling, terrified man, jumped when he heard another bout of laughter from the kitchen. He strained his ears, and, as John always underestimated his flatmate's acute hearing, Sherlock understood every word of what was whispered...

Molly: "Are you telling me you _heard_ us?"

John: "I'm sorry, I did not want to be rude. It's just that ….. if you need some medical advice, soon... you can always count on me, Molly."

Molly: Giggle, giggle. Then: "If he goes on like he did last night – I promise you, John, after these four weeks of honeymoon, I'll take you up on that." Giggle, giggle.

John: Giggle, giggle.

Sherlock retreated to the bathroom and locked the door. He examined his body, his neck, shanks, groins...

Oh God, oh God, oh God...

He clung to his mobile as if it were the only thing in this universe able to save him. "Mycroft" he whispered in a strained voice when his brother took the call "Mycroft, I'm trapped. Please, brother, I need your help! Please!"

Mycroft chuckled softly, then a hissing sound indicated that he had laid his palm over the micro of his phone.

Alas, he, too, had no real grasp of the abilities of Sherlock's ears. "Poor little one" Sherlock heard him whisper to somebody else. "Honeymoon fever!"

"MYCROFT!" Sherlock yelled. "Not you too!"

During the next five minutes, Mycroft did his utmost to comfort his horrified younger brother, but he had no other choice but to promise Sherlock to come with the full force and authority of the British Government to rescue his sibling from a fate worse than death.

It seemed to Sherlock like an eternity, but actually it wasn't more than twenty minutes before Mycroft showed up at 221B.

Only at the sound of his brother's voice, Sherlock dared leaving the bathroom's refuge.

On Sherlock's hesitant emergence, a meanwhile completely – and very smartly – dressed Molly together with a high spirited John Watson and Mrs Hudson were keeping Mycroft company in the living room.

Mycroft turned to his younger brother with a radiant smile. "Dear boy. May I introduce my new assistants? Mr James Moriarty and Miss Jacqueline Clockson – my brother Sherlock."

It was one of these moments Sherlock had always been sure happened to other people, to ordinary people, but never to him.

The earth no longer turned around the sun, the universe was no more where it once had been and water was a pink red paste that used to flow uphill.

James grinned a hellish grin. "I'm pleased to meet you, Sherlock. Mycroft has told me so much about you."

Sherlock wanted to say something – or perhaps yell something – he felt his throat and lips move, but nothing came out. It was as if he was gagged.

This couldn't be real, this couldn't be the real world, would please, PLEASE, someone come and wake him up!

The door bell rang.

With a happy smile Mrs Hudson flew to answer it.

Steps on the stair, a flurry of voices, minutes ticked by and still Sherlock helplessly looked from one smiling face to the other; no comprehension, no sympathy, no sign of understanding anywhere, except for the evil faces of Moriarty and his girl...

Sherlock was sure that worse could not come, but he underrated an enemy who had spent a day or two in hell.

In came Andersson, a very pale, very subdued Andersson, with the face of a kicked poodle. In his wake a radiant, beaming Sally Donovan.

"Mr and Mrs Andersson" Mrs Hudson said with a mock bow. "You're just in time."

"Isn't it marvellous, Locksy, that Sally and her new husband will spent their honeymoon with us?" Molly said. "Four weeks in Vienna, two happily married couples, oh isn't it romantic?" She turned to her brother-in-law. "Thank you ever so much, Mycroft, for making this possible."

"Oh, nothing is too much if it makes my little brother happy" Mycroft answered, and Sherlock hoped in vain for any sign of malice or sarcasm in his words. By the way - Locksy? Really, had the woman said _Locksy_?

"When James here came up with the idea" Mycroft meanwhile continued "I was at once convinced!"

Sherlock looked at Andersson and the hapless forensic expert returned the stare with equal intense.

It was all it took to tell Sherlock that Andersson _knew_. Actually, besides himself, Andersson was the only one who remembered.

Suddenly, everyone was in a hurly-burly, taking luggage, saying good-bye, pecking kisses on cheeks left and right, and the two unfortunate men had no other chance but to swim with the current, or drown in it.

"_Tonight_" Sherlock suddenly thought. "_Did not John say __that departure __was scheduled for tonight?_"

As if he'd been reading his brother's thoughts, Mycroft chimed in "and thanks Mrs Hudson for being such a dear about the flat. I was so very surprised myself that Sherlock and his wife are going to live quietly in the country, in our old ancestral home, that I took an awful lot of time in coming back to you."

"Yes, thank you Mrs Hudson" Molly seconded "I'm so much looking forward to taking my things there even today, I can hardly wait to see it."

Sherlock just followed orders from this moment on.

On their way downstairs, with Molly clinging to his arm, almost making him stumble and fall down the steps instead of walking down, his "wife" muttered into his ear "your brother is an angel, paying for their honeymoon as well. Just because Andersson is one of your closest friends, and he's lost everything, the house, the money, when his wife got her divorce. And his career at the Yard, too. Isn't it romantic that he gave it all up, just for a quiet life with Sally?"

"Yes, sure" Sherlock said. It felt safe to say that. Molly was the one with solid ground under her feet. Saying "yes" to anything she said was the safe thing to do. The right thing to do.

In fact, Sherlock had the distinct impression that it was the only thing he _could_ do, and that it would stay that way for a long, long, long, long time to come.

On the threshold of 221B, all the others were busy with anything else, Jacqueline had Sherlock to herself for a moment. "How do you like your new life, Mr Holmes?" she asked.

"You created it" he retorted, suddenly, against all logic and common sense, sure that this was the only explanation. "You tell me."

"It's only fair, is it not? A new life for the Consulting Criminal, a new life for the Consulting Detective."

"My brother..." Sherlock said, tensed.

"Mycroft is most impressed with James' and my abilities. He thinks the world of us. I have a feeling that we will always be close to him, very close. To his heart, if you follow my drift."

"What did you do? How did you achieve it?" Sherlock could hardly believe he was having this weird conversation.

"One of the more complex spells from Granny Oggelvie's book. Bound to the resurrection, actually. A new life, a new reality. But it won't do, boring the Holmes boys with any details about it, as you do not believe in the supernatural."

"They do not know, Molly, John, my brother, or Sally..."

Jacqueline nodded. "For Molly, for Sergeant Donovan – from one woman to two others, I think you and Andersson are the villains here. You are the only ones to be punished by memories of your old lives. The others are happy, as they deserve it!"

"I could always tell Mycroft what you did!" Sherlock hissed through clenched jaws.

She laughed softly. "Go ahead. Tell him. Tell him you're all enchanted by a living corpse and by a witch." She leaned in on him, uncomfortably close, murmuring, purring at him "what will it be, the pyre for me or the straight jacket for you, my dear Sherlock, mhm? What do you think?"

"Mycroft will never put your word over mine, I'm his brother!"

Suddenly the humour was gone from Jacqueline's face. "Seeing you happy was Mycroft's secret heart's desire. As I said, James and I are close to this heart. What does it matter if he believes you or not? I promise you, he won't survive it!"

Later that night, in the train, the women were happily chattering in the other compartment, Andersson finally broke his silence. "Oh God, Sherlock, what are we going to do?"

"Search!" Sherlock snapped back.

"For what?"

"A book."

"What book?"

"Granny Oggelvie's book" Sherlock said sternly.

"And when we find it?"

Sherlock smiled menacingly enough to send a shudder down Andersson's spine.

"When we've found it" Sherlock Holmes said "I swear to you, that a very old, very distinguished dynasty of sorcerers will cease to exist."

Andersson thought long and hard about that. Naturally to no avail.

He shouldn't have bothered. His fellow sufferer was hell-bent on fighting the good fight, enough for a dozen men, let alone two.

Sherlock, on his return to England, told Mycroft that they had changed their mind about their place of residence.

Mycroft was only too happy to keep his finally redeemed younger brother close.

Mr and Mrs Holmes took up residence in a very nice, very spacious flat not too far away from 221B Baker Street, where a happy and content John Watson was all too eager to take up his and Sherlock's investigative adventures where they'd once left them.

For many a month, life was smooth, although Sherlock Holmes and John Watson roamed the most dangerous quarters of London and beyond in their persecution of evildoers.

One day, James Moriarty and Jacqueline Clockson were reported missing in some far away foreign country to which their work with MI6 had brought them.

Mycroft had never told them that their last assignment had been his brother's idea.

When, a while later, some newspapers reported some especially fanciful, sophisticated and extremely lucrative frauds from that area of the world, events that seemed to be rooted in nothing less than pure magic, nobody took much notice.

Nobody but Molly Hooper's husband, who nonetheless commented on these reports by nothing more than a vicious smirk and some secret chuckling.

During the small hours of the next day, Sherlock Holmes sat alone in his study while Molly was fast asleep.

It was tonight or never.

This was what he had been studying for, practising for, preparing for. So much work, he had put his heart's blood into it.

Everything was ready. The time, the book, the spell and its ingredients.

Tonight the feisty couple was destined to die, and, if everything was done properly by the newly graduated scholar of magic Sherlock Holmes, their deaths would set him and Andersson free.

Give them back their old lives. Let the new existence, that had been forced on them, vanish into nothingness, as if it had never existed.

Minutes ticked by, summed up to hours, passed.

A bird began its song in front of the open window.

And Sherlock knew that the night of all nights had come and gone unused.

The morning saw some very ancient looking shreds of torn paper and old leather in the Holmes' couple's dustbin. One of only two existing copies of Granny Oggelvie's book of spells was gone forever.

Sherlock climbed into his bed, snuggled up to his wife, and sent an SMS to an address known only to him. "_So long, and thanks for leaving my brother alone_! _S. H."_

"_Who needs Mycroft when one's got the wor__ld? - J. C_."

"_It's a crying shame someone like you and James should be that happy! S. H._"

"_Aren't you? J. C._"

Sherlock looked at his sleeping wife, at the gentle curve of her swelling belly, and smiled. "_Yes_" he texted back "_I think I am_."

Who the hell cared a shit about Andersson?

FINIS

**A/N: That was it, people, the last chapter. Could you pleeeeaaasse remember the review button?**


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